LITMIR.BIZ

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allus been kinder fond o’ chillun, Tom, and mebbe she ain’t as colicky by natur’ as Martin Luther was, but I mus’ say it’s the curi’sest thing I ever heern—him a-gwine away an’ givin’ her cl’ar up as ef he hadn’t no sort o’ nat’ral feelin’s—I do say it’s curi’s.”

      “He’s a queer fellow,” said Tom, “a queer fellow! There’s no denying that.”

      That this was true was proven by his conduct during the time in which it was liable to public comment. Until night he was not seen, and then he came in at a late hour and, walking in silence through the roomful of watchers, shut himself up in an inner chamber and remained there alone.

      “He’s takin’ it mighty hard,” they said. “Seems like it’s kinder onsettled his mind. He hain’t never looked at the child once.”

      He did not appear at all the next day until all was ready and Tom De Willoughby went to him.

      He found him lying on the bed, his haggard face turned towards the window. He did not move until Tom touched him on the shoulder.

      “If you want to see her——” he said.

      He started and shuddered.

      “What, so soon?” he said. “So soon?”

      “Now,” Tom answered. “Get up and come with me.”

      He obeyed, following him mechanically, but when they reached the door, Tom stopped him.

      “I’ve told them a story that suits well enough,” he said. “I’ve told them that you’re poor and have no friends, and can’t care for the child, and I’ve a fancy for keeping it. The mother is to lie out here on the hillside until you can afford to find a better place for her—perhaps at your own home. I’ve told the tale my own way. I’m not much of a hand at that kind of thing, but it’ll do. I’ve asked you no questions.”

      “No,” said the man, drearily. “You’ve asked me no questions.”

      Then they went together into the other room. There were twenty or thirty people in it, or standing about the door. It was like all mountain funerals, but for an air of desolateness even deeper than usual. The slender pine coffin was supported upon two chairs in the middle of the room, and the women stood or sat about, the more easily moved weeping a little under the shadow of their calico sunbonnets. The men leaned against the door-posts, or sat on the wooden steps, bare-headed, silent, and rather restless.

      When Tom led his charge into the apartment, there was a slight stir and moving back of chairs to make way for him. He made his way straight to the coffin. When he reached it and looked down, he started. Perhaps the sight of the white dress with its simple girlish frills and homelike prettiness brought back to him some memory of happier days when he had seen it worn before.

      The pure, childlike face had settled into utter calm, and across the breast and in the hands were long, slender branches of the thickly flowering wild white clematis. Half an hour before Tom had gone into the woods and returned with these branches, which he gave to one of the younger women.

      “Put them on her,” he said, awkwardly; “there ought to be some flowers about her.”

      For a few moments there reigned in the room a dead silence. All eyes were fixed upon the man who stood at the coffin side. He simply looked down at the fair dead face. He bestowed no caresses upon it, and shed no tears, though now and then there was to be seen a muscular contraction of his throat.

      At length he turned towards those surrounding him and raised his hand, speaking in a low voice.

      “Let us pray.”

      It was the manner of a man trained to rigid religious observances, and when the words were uttered, something like an electric shock passed through his hearers. The circuit-riders who stopped once or twice a month at the log churches on the roadside were seldom within reach on such an occasion as this, and at such times it was their custom to depend on any good soul who was considered to have the gift of prayer. Perhaps some of them had been wondering who would speak the last words now, as there was no such person on the spot; but the trained manner and gesture, even while it startled them by its unexpectedness, set their minds at rest.

      They settled themselves in the conventional posture, the women retiring into their bonnets, the men hanging their heads, and the prayer began.

      It was a strange appeal—one which only one man among them could grasp the meaning of, though all regarded its outpouring words with wonder and admiration. It was an outcry full of passion, dread, and anguish which was like despair. It was a prayer for mercy—mercy for those who suffered, for the innocent who might suffer—for loving hearts too tender to bear the bitter blows of life.

      “The loving hearts, O God!” he cried, “the loving hearts who wait—who——”

      More than one woman looked up from under her bonnet; his body began to tremble—he staggered and fell into a chair, hiding his face, shaking from head to foot in an agony of weeping. Tom made his way to him and bent over him.

      “Come with me,” he said, his great voice broken. “Come with me into the air, it will quiet you, and we can wait until—until they come.”

      He put his arm under his and supported him out of the house.

      Two or three women began to rock themselves to and fro and weep aloud hysterically. It was only the stronger ones who could control themselves. He was standing at Tom’s side then; when they came out a short time afterwards, walking slowly and carrying the light burden, which they lowered into its resting-place beneath the pines.

      He was quite calm again, and made no sound or movement until all was over. Then he spoke to Tom.

      “Tell them,” he said, “that I thank them. I can do no more.”

      He walked back to the desolate house, and in a little while the people went their ways, each of them looking back a little wistfully at the cabin as he or she rode out of sight.

      When the last one was lost to view, Tom, who had loitered about, went into the cabin.

      The man was sitting in the empty room, his gaze fixed upon the two chairs left standing in the middle of it a few paces from each other.

      Tom moved them away and then approached him.

      “The child has been taken to my house,” he said. “You don’t want to see it?”

      “No.”

      “Is there anything else I can do?”

      “No, nothing else,” monotonously.

      “Are you going away?”

      “Yes—to-night.”

      Tom glanced around him at the desolation of the poor, bare little place, at the empty bed, and the small trunk at the foot of it.

      “You are not going to stay here alone, man?” he said.

      “Yes,” he was answered. “I have something to do; I must be alone.”

      Tom hesitated a moment.

      “Well,” he said, at length, “I suppose I’ve done, then. Good-bye.”

      “Good-bye,” he was answered. “The Lord—the Lord will reward you.”

      And then Tom crossed the room slowly and reluctantly, passed out, and closed the door after him.

      When he opened his own door, he struck his foot against something and stumbled over it. It was a primitive wooden cradle—somewhat like a box on rockers—a quilt of patchwork covered it, and upon the small pillow rested the round black head of his new possession. He stopped short to regard it. Aunt Mornin had left it there while she occupied herself with preparing supper in the kitchen. It really looked quite comfortable. Gradually a smile established itself upon Tom’s countenance.

      “By

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